


Feel your breathing

by Mixxy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And there are feels, Cuddling, M/M, Platonic or not, Post Reichenbach, Separation Anxiety, Sherlock returns, post-TRF, so many feels, your choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mixxy/pseuds/Mixxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And he was numb yet feeling far too much, he was back on that pavement, and his mind was buzzing far too hard, whispering you didn’t do it in time, Mrs. Hudson is dead, Lestrade is dead, your John is dead dead dead- </p><p>And then John’s hand was around his wrist, thumb rubbing over his pulse point, and Sherlock’s not sure if it was to comfort him or John but either way it worked</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel your breathing

Mrs. Hudson hadn’t batted an eye, when he came back. She’d just shrugged and accepted it with a “You like to keep people on their toes, don’t you, dearie?" Sally and Anderson had looked like they’d seen the dead _(ha)_ and Lestrade punched him square on the jaw before pulling him into a hug that made his spine crack.

But John-

John almost _broke_ him.

He had just looked at him with a dull expression that had shifted into that face that Sherlock called his “done with your bullshit" face, because when he made that face _(before)_ that was what he said afterwards. And he turned to leave, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist and the words were stuck in his throat but he wanted to beg, to plead, _please John, please, you can’t not care, I can’t be the only one feeling._

And then John looked down at where their hands met and made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. The next thing Sherlock knew John was there, pressing every inch of his body he could against Sherlock, one hand fisted in Sherlock’s lapel so tightly his knuckles were white, the other in a similarly tight hold on his back. It took Sherlock almost a full minute to realize that he was holding John just as close, stroking his hair, and he suddenly noticed John was murmuring a never-ending string of choked words against his shoulder. _You bloody **arse** , don’t you ever do that to me again, don’t you ever leave me, I was so alone, **so alone** , you bloody lunatic-_

And it took even longer for Sherlock to realize he was mumbling more or less the same things.

————

He’d been up for at least three days, running on cheap coffee and the promise of ending this itch, that feeling that swept him every time he made a deduction and there was only silence afterward, no _brilliant_ or _fantastic_ or even _Sherlock this is not the same save the showing off for later._ And he didn’t want to leave, but being here, being home, and knowing the people he cared about were safe- it was like a sedative, and his 72+ hours of sleep hit him all at once. He lingered in the doorway as long as he could, but when he all but fell asleep against the doorframe trying to keep John in his line of sight, he conceded defeat.

His room looked the same to the pedestrian eye, but he could see a million minute details. A half-dozen areas were ever so slightly out of place- _they tried to pack up and throw out but couldn’t get through it_ \- his most dangerous experiments were gone- _well naturally even if John wasn’t living here for the most time he wouldn’t want Mrs. Hudson to suffer any aftereffects_ \- and most curiously, his bed wasn’t in the same exact shape, had a foreign smell, and it hit him. He could see John, a few days after the fall, lying on his bed, taking in the fastidious surroundings and the smell of his cologne, and trying, _trying_ _somehow_ , to cope with this fresh loss.

His knees almost buckled and he had to catch himself on his bedside table, the wave of _you hurt John you hurt him so badly go go go find him he’s going to leave, you don’t deserve to have someone so good when you’ve hurt them so badly_. But he wouldn’t, wouldn’t go find John and pull him close like he wanted to, wouldn’t scare him off.

He changed into his sleep clothes and got into bed and stared at the wall and tried to ignore the churning anxiety in his stomach, the feeling- the knowledge- that John was going to leave him.

But when his door was pushed open silently and a second weight joined him on the bed, arms curling around him, Sherlock had never felt so relieved.

——

The mornings had been the worst, after the fall. John had often had dreams that he had been just a little bit faster, and he had caught Sherlock, never mind how, but Sherlock was _safe_ and _home_. And then there were the dreams where Sherlock walked right through the door, just like that, and he was back, and John could have cried, but then he tried to touch Sherlock and he disappeared.

Then John would wake up and at first he’d jerk out of bed, running from room to room, so sure that it hadn’t been a dream, and the part where Sherlock bled all over the sidewalk was the dream instead. Then the crushing blow of _he’s gone_ would land and it would knock him to the ground, breathless.

Eventually he stopped calling Sherlock’s name, stopped looking, and would just wake up and lay there, wondering if the universe would be merciful and make today not as hard as yesterday.

Sherlock would have dreams too, ones where he hadn’t jumped fast enough, or hadn’t jumped at all, or it had all been a trick, but either way John was looking up at him and all of the sudden John _wasn’t_ , and John’s brains were all over the sidewalk, and Sherlock would gasp awake. He’d put his head in his hands and wait for his heart to stop racing. Sometimes he knocked his phone to the floor in a last-ditch effort to resist from texting John.

But the nightmares didn’t really bother them anymore.

Sherlock slept dramatically, like he did everything else, all sprawled out and taking up far more than his share. It was hard to wake up with panic in your throat and the feeling that something was missing when that _something_ had his legs tangled in yours, or an arm thrown across your torso, or his full bloody weight resting on you.

_(those were John’s favorite mornings, because then he didn’t even have to open his eyes. He could feel Sherlock’s chest rising and falling gently, a promise that he was here and unharmed, and the anxiety didn’t even have a chance to worm its way in like most mornings)_

John slept like he lived, a protector, arms caged around Sherlock like he was ready to save him from anything. Pressing his head down gently on the top of Sherlock’s when he- most definitely did _not_ snuggle- against John’s collarbone. Occasionally he’d wake up on his side, and he couldn’t see John, and he’d feel a flash of cold dread, of panic, and then John would pull him closer, even in sleep, and Sherlock could feel John’s heartbeat, a reassurance, and then he was okay.

_(they both knew that the other one wasn’t always sleeping. They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t need to)_

——————

The first few days, it was bad. Sherlock leaned on John like a particularly lanky Golden Retriever, and John had a habit of yanking Sherlock back if he stepped away for too long, often by the sleeve of his shirt or a tie, if he was wearing one. Eventually they found their way into something comfortable, something far less painful.

The common denominator in keeping the uneasiness away was simple- they had to be in contact, at all times. After they figured that out, it was easy. Sherlock would press against John’s back, reading the paper over his shoulder. They made tea, in such close proximity that their shoulders had to nudge each other. Sherlock would drape his feet on John’s lap while they watched crap telly, or on certain nights, he’d lay his head down and John would comb his fingers through his hair while Sherlock complained.

"This is ridiculous, this show is so formulaic it’s insulting! Obviously the wife did it and framed the cousin!"

"Shut up, you ponce."

_(it felt so right that it ached, in a good way)_

Sherlock rested his hand on John’s shoulder while he blogged. John kept a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back as they walked to the store to get milk.

Of course one day they had to walk past St. Bart’s, and Sherlock fully expected John to have some sort of distress. But John just gave him a small half-smile and nudged his shoulder again. Sherlock glanced up towards the roof and suddenly felt a rushing in his ears, felt his mouth go dry.

And he was numb yet feeling far too much, he was back on that pavement, and his mind was buzzing far too hard, whispering _you didn’t do it in time, Ms. Hudson is dead, Lestrade is dead, your John is dead dead dead_ -

And then John’s hand was around his wrist, thumb rubbing over his pulse point, and Sherlock’s not sure if it was to comfort him or John but either way it worked. His heartbeat slowed down, and John’s hand slipped from his wrist to his hand, and that was better, that was best.

——

Holding hands was the most convenient when out in public. One couldn’t just keep an arm around their companion’s shoulders at all time, it was awkward to walk around with.

_(they still attracted stares of course, but they didn’t care. They knew each other was safe, and was there, and that was what mattered.)_

They had been taking cases, but only working with Lestrade. Even though Sherlock’s name had been cleared _(hell, the newspapers fell all over themselves making him a martyr, a hero_ ) they didn’t go back to the yard, not for awhile.

Apparently after the fall, after it all came to light, John had come down to the station, a whirlwind of hurt and fury and _you did this_ , and he’d broken Anderson’s nose and knocked out two teeth and eventually had to be pulled off. He’d rushed to Sally, then, and had spoken to her, low and angry, and nobody knew just what he’d said but she started crying and had run off and didn’t come back for three days. As the rest of the yard finally managed to sit him down, _it’s okay, you’re just grieving, you’ve had a shock_ , he’d looked at Lestrade and said “he trusted you and you killed him".

Which explained why they avoided the yard. Sherlock wouldn’t go anywhere without John, and John made half the people at the yard flinch for different reasons.

But eventually they needed to go in, and Anderson was there with new fake teeth and a resentful distance, joining Sally in a sharp glare. Lestrade wouldn’t make eye contact with either John or Sherlock until Sherlock clapped him on the shoulder and said “honestly, how did you become DI, you’ve mucked everything up so throughly since I’ve been gone," and then things fell back into a type of normalcy.

Then they went to go inspect the body, hands still clasped together. Sherlock was absorbed in the information screaming to him from the details, and John was watching Sherlock make the connections _(it would never stop amazing him)_ and neither noticed Sally and Anderson’s gazes change.

Their eyes went wide, and Sally elbowed Anderson, pulling him close so they could whisper.

_Are they?_

_We all thought that-_

_I knew there was a reason he kept him around, I knew it-_

_It was only a matter of time before he got in his head-_

_We should say something._

But they were interrupted by Lestrade, standing in front of them with a cross expression. “Oi. You lot. Don’t. Just don’t."

"But Lestrade-!"

"I told you that-"

"No." He shook his head firmly. “They’ve been through enough, haven’t they? They don’t need you ruining it."

"He knocked out _two of my teeth_!”

"Do you blame him? We- we bought Moriarty’s story. We all did. We helped destroy John’s- well, whatever Sherlock is to him. After all that, they deserve a bit of happiness. And I don’t rightly care if they’re boyfriends, or best friends, or whatever the bloody hell John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are. You leave them alone or I swear to God I will give you the shitty cases for a month, and Sally, I’ll send you to all the cases where you work in the morgue. Molly doesn’t care for you much, does she? Wouldn’t be a very fun time."

Sally took a step back, remembering Molly all fires and unconfined fury after Sherlock had been accused. Anderson scowled but went back to his clipboard.

Sherlock found Lestrade not long after that, unrolling an explanation that he deemed “simple" yet seemed anything but, and chastising him to give him a more difficult case next time.

And if Sherlock leaned affectionately against John like it was second nature while they waited for the cab, no one said anything. It was John and Sherlock, after all. They were never normal.

_(But together, they would be alright)_

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic online ever. Whoo? But hey look REICHENBACH FEELS EVERYWHERE
> 
> Also, my blog is [here](http://mixxtapej.tumblr.com). Feel free to stop by.


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